Jigsaw Puzzle
by Beautiful Shiny People
Summary: Title change  A collection of drabbles and inane ideas. Updated whenever. Many different pairings, however most will be focused on AltMal EzioLeonardo DesShaun. Crossover situations possible. Rated High T to M
1. Sixteen and Dr Mercer

_Subject has heavy scarring over thighs, arms and torso. Self-mutilation? Remember to tell Lucy to keep watch when he sleeps._

He stares up at me with large, dark eyes and a scar runs smoothly from the corner of his eye to the corner of his lip. He's dressed in a simple long-sleeved white shirt with dark shorts, reveiling the bandages wrapping neatly over his legs. He's extremely skinny, and I notice his chin comes to a startling point. It's as if he hasn't eaten in weeks. He reminds me of a starving bird. "W-who are you?" His voice is barely a whisper, and I can see his fingers clench around something.

I blink, looking back up to his young face, moving slowly as if approching a frightened animal. I squat down to his eye level, setting the clip board I had previously been carrying in order to take whatever object this kid has.

His fingers are limp as I move them away, frowning at the shallow cuts running across his light cinnimon skin. The straight razor glints up at me, barely covered with crimson; I let out a long sigh, helping the kid up from the floor. "T-TELL ME WHO YOU ARE!" He shrieks, using his wounded hands to push at my chest, staining the crisp white lab-coat I'm wearing.

I remain calm, looking about the room for a first-aid kit, before telling him to sit on the bed. He does as he's told, looking at me suspiciously while itching at the bandages covering his thighs with his uninjured hand.

I begin to wrap gauze around his fingers, pausing every-so often when he twitches in pain. "My name is Alex Mercer. I'm a doctor and I'm going to help you."

_Subject's age is unknown. Looks around nineteen, maybe twenty, though that could be pushing it. Says his name is Sixteen. I wonder what type of parent names their kid a number..._

When he's under, Sixteen looks pained, frightened, and peaceful. It's a weird cocktail of expressions, but I can't help but admire him. I notice that the hollowness of his cheeks is becoming more prominent as the sessions become longer; he has bags under his eyes that suggest he hasn't been sleeping much, and I find myself wanting to stroke the bruised skin. He has that kind of attractiveness that starved supermodels have.

Lucy monitors how the Animus is working, watching the kid's brainwaves and heartbeat. Vidic plays SuperMario Brothers on his computer. The blonde woman has a look of concern on her face, glancing at Sixteen when he groans.

I sit calmly beside the large, square computer; my arms are folded in front of my chest, and I glare at the floor, waiting for when Lucy'll finally pull the plug and let the kid rest.

Hours later, the woman says that the machine is over-heating, that if they don't pull him out now, he's good as dead. Vidic merely shrugs a shoulder, going over to the coffee pot to refill his white cup.

Sixteen sits up, gagging and sobbing. He tears at his face, drawing blood until Lucy and I can pull his hands away. He worries at his mouth, eyes flickering from side to side until they land on me.

With a sob, the kid launches himself from the Animus and wraps his skinny, bandaged arms around my neck. His nose is buried into my chest, and I awkwardly pat at his back. Lucy gives me a sidelong glance, but I narrow my eyes in a small glare.

_Subject is beginning to have hallucinations of his time in the Animus. The 'Bleeding Effect' or something, that's what Lucy says it is. They don't last long, 30 sec. is maybe the longest...I'm worried and confused as to _why_ I'm worried._

"I thought you were going to help me?" I press my thumb over one freshly made cut, earning a soft groan from my patient. Gauze is stained pink as it soaks up the blood running in rivets down Sixteen's arms.

"I can't help you if you don't help yourself, Sixt." He complains that the bandages are too tight, but I merely grunt, angry at his carelessness.

Sixteen sighs shakily, dark eyes lined by bags watching as I put away the first aid kit. "...but what if I don't wanna help myself?"

_It's been weeks since I've last checked on Sixteen; I haven't been able to sit in during the Animus sessions due to Gentek and Abstergo riding my ass about the BLACKLIGHT project. Makes me wonder what the hell they're planning on doing with the damn thing. I hope that they don't just dump a corpse on me when I get to the building and expect me to heal him. _

I find the kid laying a pool of his own blood, his wrists and legs hacked to ribbons. Symbols are smeared over the too white walls of the main area of the Animus room, and I can see that Sixteen crawled out of his room while rapidly losing blood. There are spatters over Vidic's desk, and the keys are stained crimson. Biting back a growl, I grab Sixteen by his too skinny shoulders, turning him over.

He's smiling up at me, dark eyes clouding over while shallow breaths escape his thin mouth. "Sixteen!" My heart is hammering in my chest, and I feel like I'm about to puke up the dry piece of toast I had that morning.

"I'm...f-finished..." I watch as his chest stops moving and as the last few drops of blood leaves his body. My head is pounding behind my eyeballs, and I feel rage bubbling in the pit of my stomach. The white lab coat is covered in blood, and I cradle Sixteen's lifeless body as if he's only sleeping.

_Of course it proved too much for him! He was just a fucking KID! The signs where there, but I ignored them. For what? My cushy job? They're going to PAY. All of them._

()-()

_Yes, my weird enjoyment of Alex Mercer/Sixteen. Enjoy._


	2. Instant Pleasure

_"I don't want somebody to love me Just give me sex whenever I want it 'Cause all I ask for is instant pleasure Instant pleasure, instant pleasure."-'_Instant Pleasure' Rufus Wainwright -

Desmond was confused when hands gripped his shoulders and quickly turned his chair around. "Hey-" He was even more confused when Shaun planted himself in his lap, a small glare narrowing the Brit's eyes.

Although he found this position highly acceptable, Desmond opened his mouth to tell Shaun to 'Get off', but was promptly shut up by a pair of lips crashing into his own. With a short moan, the novice assassin's hands went to rest on the Brit's hips, moving his mouth against Shaun's.

Shaun groaned, his tongue sliding over Desmond's, both kissing each other hard enough for their teeth to click together. The Brit pulled back, licking his lips and watching as the darker haired man panted lightly; a small smirk rested on Shaun's mouth, his gray-green eyes darkened with lust and amusment at getting revenge on Desmond for always destracting him.

"Bastard." Desmond growls, quickly recapturing the Brit's lips. Shaun groaned into the open mouthed kiss, sliding his body closer to the novice assassin's. Their cloth covered erections rubbed against each other, causing groans to rip out of both of their throats.

Desmond broke his mouth away from Shaun's, placing sloppy kisses on the Brit's throat, marking the passage with sharp nips to the warm skin. Fingers curled in the novice assassin's short hair as Desmond sucked on a rather sensitive spot; Shaun gritted his teeth together, panting and grinding his hips into the other male's.

They moved quickly to the wooden floor, hands touching and fingernails scraping down flushed skin; Shaun unzipped the white jacket the novice constantly wore, spreading his hand flat against the white-shirt covered chest. He hummed in appreciation while Desmond worked on his cream coloured button-up.

Clothes were flung in obscure directions, and when bare skin made contact with bare skin, a synchronization of moans filled the large Animus room. Shaun bit at Desmond's lower lip, licking the flushed skin, liking the way the novice assassin's dark eyes met his. "Fuck me." The Brit commanded lowly, fingers clamping tightly on Desmond's shoulders.

Keeping eye contact with Shaun, the novice assassin slid his fingers into his mouth, slicking the digets with a coating of saliva. The Brit groaned lightly, bracing for the invasion of his person, groaning in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

He's prepped quickly because the novice can't wait; the Brit hisses and tenses as Desmond pushes into him, sheathing fully before pulling out and slamming back in.

"F-fuck!" Neither knew which gasped the profanity, focusing on the erratic rhythm they had started. Shaun's hand wrapped around his leaking sex, pumping in time with Desmond's thrusts, crying to go deeper and harder dammit.

The novice complied full heartedly, groaning loudly at the heat surrounding him. Gasps and groans were muffled as Shaun leaned up to kiss Desmond, sucking on the male's tongue when he hit the historian's 'sweet spot'.

Shaun moaned lowly, toes curling as his orgasm began to unwind in his gut. Gritting his teeth and gasping, his hand moved faster to create more friction around his sex. The historian bit down on Desmond's shoulder to stifle his moan of realease, the pain mixed in with the already large amounts of dopamine, norepinephrine, and phenylethylamine being released in the novice's brain caused a low gutteral cry to escape past Desmond's mouth.

After a few moments, the two men relaxed into a pile of tangled limbs. Desmond hummed happily, nuzzling into the crook of the flushed historian's neck. Shaun's eyes fluttered closed as he let go of a long sigh. "So...what brought this on?"

The Brit turned over onto his side, feeling his ears heat up in embarrassment. He felt arms wrap around his waist. pulling him closer to the novice's warmth. "I was horny and you were sitting there looking stupid." His insult lacked the usual vigor due to the sleep that weighed it down.

Desmond snorted and placed a small kiss on one of the love bites he had left. He felt Shaun's pulse quicken, and he grinned. "Whatever you say, Shaun." -

()-()

_How about some porn?_


	3. Swimming Lessons

_"I saw you hanging from a tree And I made believe it was me..._  
><em>But with you by my side I can do anything When we swing we hang past right and wrong."<em>  
><em>-'I'm Sticking With You'<em>

He glared down at the clear water, hands sweating lightly in nervousness. "You...honestly expect me to...get in there?"

Malik snorted softly, prodding the crouched assassin lightly with the toe of his boot. "It's barely deep enough to wade in. If you panic, then you could just stand." The one armed man turned, hand going up to the series of ties that held his robes to his body.

Altair's eyes widened slightly, not moving from his crouch. Malik droped his gaze to the assassin, a small frown dancing at the corner of his mouth. "I do not want my clothing to get wet, so stop blushing like a woman and get undressed."

Black and white robes pooled around Malik's scarred chest; the cauterized skin on his left arm was dusted a light, agitated pink, causing Altair to shrink back slightly in shame. Scars danced up skin like henna designs, marking the dark planes almost in a beautifully grotesque sort of way. The master assassin frowned to himself, groaning lightly in the back of his throat.

Altair mentally sighed, looking down at his complicated robes. His keen ears heard the sound of fabric being pushed away, and soon something breaking the sleek surface of the water.

"You're wasting my time." Malik's voice held an edge of irritation, which only prompted a smirk from the assassin.

Making sure he took as long as he could with out the one armed man becoming so annoyed that he just up and left, Altair gingerly stepped into the cool stream.

Malik eyed him warily as he moved through the water, stopping when it came to his waist. "If you want to actuallly swim, wouldn't it be better if you came deeper?"

Altair growled lowly, noting the way Malik's mouth was turned upwards in a grin. The one armed man, despite his handicap, moved through the water easily, and this slightly irked the ever prideful assassin.

He moved slowly, the water raising until it was above his belly button; Altair sighed, toes sinking into the soft sand. He didn't hear the water shifting until a strong hand propelled him forward.

In a clash of flailing limbs, water, and plenty of colourful curses, the assassin regained his footing. Malik was laughing loudly, tears coming to his eyes as Altair fixed him with a deadly glare. "You'll pay for that, A-Sayaf." The assassin's voice was low, fingers of his right hand flickering reflexivly.

Malik smiled brightly, moving quickly in a circle around him. "Really? How can you get your 'revenge' if you cannot catch me?"

Altair lunged (although less gracefully than he would have on land); his arms were useless as they tried to propell him through the water, the splashing only causing him to choke on the liquid. He wasn't in any real danger, though Malik's obvious disregard for his..._slight_...fear of drowning caused him to slightly panic.

The one armed man ducked under, swimming quickly before breaking surface at the shore. "You're never going to learn if you refuse to move!" He called, amusement at his reluctant student's discomfort.

Altair swallowed a snippy reply, fixing his gaze on the choppy waves instead. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Malik had let his guard down (well, as much as an assassin could, even in the stronghold of Masyaf) and was lounging in the sun, content as a cat. A plan quickly took form in Altair's mind, and a small devious looking grin settled on his mouth.

Moving as quietly as he could, the assassin slowly made his way to where A-Sayaf was laying. Memories of this strip of beach prodded at the back of Altair's head; with fondness, he recalled that this was the place he and Malik went to 'relax' when they were younger (and being hormonally driven teenage boys, the sessions of 'relaxation' normally caused them both to be late for dinner or lessons).

Fingers slid up the side of the Dai's torso, causing Malik's eyes to pop open at the contact. A shout of protest was about to tumble out of his lips when he saw the look the master assassin was giving him. A displeased expression worked over his face as hot lips peppered his neck with kisses. "We're going to be late for dinner you idiot."

()-()

_I don't know; swimming lessons the fun way!_


	4. Deception

He curls in on himself, hugging his knees close to his chest; a hollow sob rolls from his shivering form, causing a wet cough to leave his chapped mouth. His glasses are cracked and dotted with blood; he thinks that maybe his nose is broken.

Shaun slowly sits up from the cell floor, hissing loudly as he places his weight on his broken wrist. Tired gray-green eyes swivel around the very plain room, taking in the white and gray colour scheme. Cradling his wrist in one hand, Shaun whimpers, moving to stand while licking his lips to try and get moisture back into the dry ridges of skin.

The room's door slides open, and Shaun flinches away, falling back onto the uncomfortable bed. He fearfully lifts his gaze up, hand shaking loosely around his purple-speckled wrist. "Mr. Hastings..." Shaun's shoulders tense, hearing Warrin Vidic's formal greeting.

He glares hotly, feeling his throat close up with anger and fear at the Templar standing before him. The older man gives him a 'kind' smile, lifting a hand to swipe away bangs that have grown longer over the time of his incarceration. "Please don't look at me like that, Mr. Hastings; today we're going to be all smiles." The 'good doctor' withdraws his hand, reaching into his lab coat to retrieve a small syringe filled with light blue liquid.

Shaun all but hisses, scooting away from Vidic as he holds his arms close to his chest. The templar sighs scoldingly, looking down at the assassin with impassive eyes; Vidic moves quickly, grabbing the younger male's broken wrist, smiling as Shaun lets a painful wail leave his body.

The needle is firmly inserted into the assassin's slowly collapsing vein, numbing his entire left side. Shaun squeezes his eyes closed over pitiful tears, allowing his body to be carried to the Animus room. He buries his face into the crook of Vidic's neck, causing a small, disgusted frown to tilt down the templar's mouth. "Please...no more, let this end."

Vidic dumps the assassin unceremoniously onto the Animus, watching as Shaun's eyes flutter blearily. He pets the young man's brown hair, smirking lightly as the assassin sighs. "It will end, Mr. Hastings...all in due time."

()()

"You understand why I have to do this...right?" A dot of crimson falls onto the tip of his nose, sliding down the slightly crooked bone to drip into his eye. He notices that the knife is shaking, and Shaun's knuckles are white with the force of his grip. Desmond remains silent, glaring up at Shaun's stricken face, wishing that looks could kill.

The Brit gulps thickly, sucking in a breath only to let it whistle through his teeth. "It's because this is right...n-not like your bloody Creed..." His voice is a whisper, and his eyes are crazed behind his blood spattered glasses.

"_My_ Creed?" Desmond snaps, trying to move his immobile body, cursing loudly when his legs won't comply with his brain's demands. The knife slashes his cheek, causing the assassin to hiss lightly, dark eyes snapping up to the unstable historian. Desmond grits his teeth, "I thought you were an assassin, t-then you go and kill off Lucy and Rebecca? FUCK! _Why_?"

A short laugh escapes the Brit; holding his head in one hand, he runs his fingers through his hair, causing the already messy strands to stick out further. "YOU LEFT ME TO ROT!" The knife streaks across the assassin's face; Shaun yanks Desmond up by his hair, his mouth twisted in anger. "I was beaten, taunted; I wanted to _die_...but finally I was told the _truth_." The Brit slams down the assassin's head, fingers clenching when Desmond's head makes a hollow thunk on the warehouse's cement floor.

Desmond stares up at the man straddling his waist; Shaun's eyes flutter closed, and a smile curls the edges of his mouth. He poses the knife above Desmond's adam's apple, his fingers tightening around the hilt. "I'm going to enjoy this..." He whispers, quickly lifting the weapon into the air.

"Mr. Hastings, you're mission is complete." Desmond groans softly, turning his eyes toward the source of the voice he knew all too well. His gaze is met with the expensive, polished black shoes of the Templar bastard, traveling up the pressed pants to stop on the older face.

Vidic grins down at him, poking his bleeding cheek with the toe of his shoe. "Excellent job though; you executed the two _tarts_ with precision."

"W-what the hell?" Desmond hisses, rolling his eyes to glare at the Brit. Shaun has a look of soft-awe on his face, the knife laying forgotten on the ground beside him. "You were working for him all along?"

Shaun snickers, gray-green eyes falling to Desmond's face. "I'm glad that your intelligence hasn't left you." Vidic's hand comes up to cup the Brit's chin; the doctor laughs, helping the historian to his feet.

"Come scrape Mr. Miles from the floor." Leading Shaun away, Vidic waves a hand dismissivly over his shoulder. "We've missed him, and we've missed _you_, Mr. Hastings."

Desmond can only stare, in disgusted shock as Shaun smiles warmly at the Templar, shooting a smirk his way. "I've missed you as well."

()-()

_Based off of a story that's on here _Stockholm Syndrome_. It's excellent!_


	5. Proper Respect

The banquet hall is full of cheering people gazing upon the royal family, assured that they hold the power of the gods in their very fingertips. They cheer as their Pharaoh addresses them, his elderly face creasing as he gives them an almost unearthly smile.

Altair watches as is father names his elder brother the Prince Regent, a title he knew he had been pining after for sometime. Their mother, the earthly embodiment of the goddess Isis, smiles kindly at her eldest son, offering the younger a glance. Altair allows himself to fume lightly, but outwardly smiles and stands to give his brother the proper congratulations.

Gold eyes flicker over the crowd of the cheering masses and land on the two gluttonous priests of Ra stuffing their faces full of the rich treats the slaves had laid out for the other guests. He smirks and walks over to his father and brother, projecting his voice for the people to hear him. "My Lord Pharoah," His father turns, eyes landing on his youngest. Altair notices that there is a flicker of dislike shining in the dark gold depths, but he pushes the thought away and smiles largely at his eldest brother. "I propose that the priests offer tribute to their new Regent."

His brother laughs lightly, knowing what he is doing, and they watch as the two priests jump at being addressed, their gluttony being exposed to the mass of people clustering around them. His father inclines his head, a smirk twitching one corner of his mouth. "An excellent idea." The Pharaoh snaps his fingers, and the brothers watch as the two men jump.

One priest straightens, his fingers steepled gracefully as he addresses the royal family. Altair snorts lightly, nudging his brother at the showy display. His brother remains silent, but the younger can see the ghost of a smirk twitching one corner of his mouth. "By the power of Ra, we present to our Lord an object for his delight, an exotic apparition stolen from far away lands." From the priests fingers comes light green smoke; if incases him fully, the smell of jasmine tickles the youngest Prince's nose while the crowd is awed by the sight.

When the smoke dissipates, a young man bound and _seething_ is perched upon a camel laced with finery. He spits in his mother tongue at the other priest holding his binds; the crowd gasp at the man missing his left arm, something like a deformity, but also a rarity for a concubine. Dark eyes sweep over the crowd until they land on Altair, pinning him in place.

The crowd let out a collective cheer, clapping at the display of the priests' magic while they smirk slyly. One priest makes a smooth gesture towards the male, bowing his head lightly at the Prince Regent. "We offer our Prince this delicate desert flower." They pull the young man off of the camel, causing him to let out a startled yelp as he dances lightly on his feet to remain upright. The crowd laughs cruelly at the man, glancing at their Prince to see if the gift pleases him.

The Prince Regent gazes down at his new prize, hands behind his back as he circles the young man. Altair feels some jealousy stab at him when his brother forcefully grabs at the young man's chin. Light fingers pinch at dark skin, and his brother cocks his head to one side. "Let's inspect this 'desert flower'..." The young man's dark eyebrows furrow and in a flash, he bites at the Prince Regent's fingers, causing his brother to startle and pull his hand away. An angered frown tips down the eldest Prince's mouth, and he glances at Altair. "More like a desert _cobra_."

Altair laughs mockingly, gold eyes sliding over to the young male glaring daggers into his brother. "Not much of a snake charmer, are you?"

His brother's eyes light up and he slides behind the younger, hands going up to push him toward the glowering young man. "That's why," He murmurs in Altair's ear, "I'm giving him to _you_." The younger watches the young man's face light up with renewed anger and outrage. He laughs softly, holding up his hands as if he was going to push the gift away.

"Brother, that's fine, I don't-"

"I will not be given to _anyone._" The young man speaks with a musical accent, all but hissing the words in Altair's direction. Dark eyes glance about the room as if falls silent."Especially not to an arrogant, pampered palace _brat_!"

His brother laughs, leaning over his shoulder to point at the bound man. "Are you going to let him talk to you like that?"

A frown dips the youngest's mouth downward, and he steps up to the male, giving him an outraged glare. "You will show the proper respect for a Prince of Egypt." A smirk shoots across the young man's face, and dark eyes peer deeply into his own.

"But I am giving you all the respect you deserve," The male's one hand wraps around the rope binding him. "_None!_" In an instant, he pulls the rope from the priest's hands, swinging it over his head like a whip. Altair takes a step back, eyes wide as the male snaps the rope at the crowd of people who are screaming and trying to back away.

The Prince grits his teeth and lunges, grabbing the swinging rope. He lands on the marble floor with a soft grunt, looking up at the defiant male. "Be _still_!" The guards stand by, confused on whether they should help their prince and his unruly possession. The young man tugs at the rope, accented voice carrying in the spacious banquet hall.

"Untie me, I demand you set me free!"

"Be _still_!" Gold eyes glance from the young man to a pool of water directly behind him. They're dancing closer to the pool, and Altair smirks, gaze snapping back up to his gift.

Dark eyes alight with outrage and fear peer down at the Prince. The young man pulls at the rope again, trying with all his might to get away. "Let _go_!" Altair smirks cruelly, ignoring the stab of guilt as he quickly releases the rope.

"As you wish." He whispers, watching as the young man dances backward, losing his footing and falling into the pool with a yelp. The crowd laughs loudly, pointing at the male as he tries to right himself, slipping and falling back into the water.

Altair stands, laughing along with the crowd as his brother wraps an arm around his shoulders. The youngest glances up towards his father and mother, his smile falling as his mother turns away from the scene with a disappointed expression.

His brother steers him towards the food, hand coming up to wave at the slaves attending to the soaked young man. "Get him cleaned up and bring him to Prince Altair's chambers."

Altair glances over his shoulder, feeling the guilt from before crash over his shoulders as he watches the slaves drape a thick linen blanket over the young man's shoulders. Dark eyes glare at him, and the Prince notices an expression of disgust covering the young man's face.

()-()

_Who else loved Prince of Egypt when they were younger?_


	6. New York, New York: The Runner part one

The rain hits the pavement of Old New York; gravel crunches under foot as he runs. He can hear the sound of police-bots chasing after him, their rubber wheels quickly making work of the semi-rough terrain of the bombed out city. He sucks air between his teeth, eyes darting about before they fall onto a broken fire escape hanging off a crumbling building. He runs over, gloved fingers encircling the rusted metal and boot clad feet lightly propelling him upward.

He flops down on to the roof of the building, holding his breath till he can't hear the police-bots' sirens. A loud gush of air leaves his lungs and he tugs down the red bandana tied around his mouth. Gold eyes flutter closed, and he lets his heart return to a normal pattern before he stands back up. One hand digs into his black pants pocket; fingers wrap around the sharp edges of the info-cube he risked his neck getting. He pulls it out, studying it with a small scowl plastered on his scarred mouth. _All that...for this?_ He remembers the sting of the gun shot and glances at his torn and bloody sleeve. He clicks his tongue and pockets the info-cube, pulling back up his red bandana. _The Master'll have to elaborate as to why this is so important. _Sucking air silently through his teeth, he runs to the edge of the building, lightly soaring off of the lip of the concrete.

His head pounds, and his vision swims as he walks down the cracked streets, avoiding bums and Alters drunkenly stumbling into one another while they exclaim about their rousing night in the barbaric Old New York. The aches and pains from the mission finally catching up with the Runner. He sucks in a short breath of air, hand going up to cup his fiercely bleeding arm, hissing lightly as hot liquid dribbles through his fingers.

Altair glances up towards still standing buildings, eyes blinded by the cheap neon signs barely clinging to the blackened brick. He grits his teeth and scrambles up the side of one 'business' establishment, gracelessly flinging his weight through an open window. Sweat sticks to his brow as the Runner stumbles toward a neatly made bed; he collapses against the crisp white sheets, eyes fluttering closed while the faint odour of jasmine greets his nose.

()**Part 1**()

_This one's gonna be broken in parts :I_


	7. So you're a foster parent, Altair

_She said I'm going use my teeth and my claws_  
><em>She said I'm going use my teeth and my claws<em>  
><em>She said I'm going use my teeth and my breasts<em>  
><em>I'm gonna make it happen- '<em>Positive Tension' Bloc Party

The first time Altair met the two new kids he was going to be fostering for a year, he could only think that the bitter looking seventeen year-old named Malik would give him trouble. The younger of the two, the fourteen year-old Kadar, seemed to instantly cling to his new foster father; he liked to follow around the writer, asking question upon question about Altair's job, his wife Maria (living with her parents; a mutual agreement they had both come to after a discreet breakup).

Malik seemed less than hospitable toward him, which Altair had no problems with. He preferred to stay curled up on the large couch with a book or a beaten-up leather journal that he seemed to take everywhere with him. He would glare at Altair whenever the man tried to make conversation, hand coming up to bite at his thumb knuckle (a habit, Altair later found out, he had taken up instead of thumb sucking). Dark blue eyes would peer over the edge of his book or journal, or the teenager would glare up at the writer from under dark eyelashes and black bangs.

Altair was pretty sure the one-armed teenager hated him, and it wasn't as if he hadn't experienced that before. Kids who had been tossed from one foster home to the other always had that sort of roughness to them; it was a coping mechanism which Altair knew too well of, having been a foster kid himself.

The three had come to something resembling a shaky family, or roommates for lack of a better word. The two teenagers went to school while Altair worked from home, they came home, ate dinner while Kadar filled the silence with chatter about his day, Malik would migrate back to the couch with another lengthy book in his thin hands, and Kadar would pester his foster father till it was time for bed. It was somewhat of a comfortable routine (even if Altair didn't get much work done with the hyperactive fourteen year-old around).

Malik and he hadn't really held a conversation in the three months the boys had been living with him, and again Altair was pretty sure that the teenager hated him.

That was why he was surprised when, during the boys' summer holiday, Malik actually approached him with a question. The writer blinked at his foster child, watching as the seventeen year-old glared, embarrassed at his feet. Altair noticed pink beginning to colour Malik's cheeks and ears, and he felt a smile threaten to tip his lips upward.

"You want to go...swimming?" Malik huffed and snapped his gaze back to meet Altair's.

"Yes. Actually, Kadar wants to, but he thinks that you won't let us." The teenager had a nice voice; accented and slightly rough. Altair stopped his train of though, mentally taking a step back and slapping himself. _What the hell was he thinking? _"I told him that was an idiotic notion, then he started crying. That's why _I'm_ asking, instead of him."

The writer leaned back in his office chair, resting his chin on his palm. He sighed, closing his eyes while he heard Malik shift from one foot to the other. "Well...I, um, don't really swim..." A soft scoff followed this.

"Can you not swim?" Altair cracked an eye open and glared at the slightly smirking teenager. Malik rolled his upward, and turned on his heel. "I'll tell Kadar we're not going because our 'dearest _father_' is afraid of water."

Altair groaned lightly, turning in his chair and booting up his laptop. "Actually, tell him we _are_ going." _You little shit_. He heard a small, triumphant noise from behind him.

"Thank you, _dad_."

()()

The swimming trip was uneventful, and as far as Altair's slight phobia of deep bodies of water went, he was glad to at least have brought along an interesting novel.

The boys swam close together, chatting happily in their mother tongue while they challenged each other to use the high board. (This was how he learned that Malik was afraid of heights; Kadar happily proclaimed his older brother a 'pussy footed woman who wasn't able to get a date for the prom' when the eldest _refused_ to jump off more than once).

Altair kept a close eye on the two teenagers, watching as Malik dunked his brother with a tiny smirk on his face. The writer noted that, although the boy was missing an arm, he moved easily through the pool, swimming quickly away from his angered brother while dodging other pool-goers.

Their eyes caught, and a scowl replaced the happy smile Malik wore only moments before. Altair blinked and returned his gaze to his book, feeling Malik's glare rather than seeing it.

()()

_His mouth was hot against sweaty skin; he marked the flesh with his teeth while groaning lowly as a thin hand roughly rubbed at his sex. Chests were pulled flush against each other, and long legs were wrapped around his waist. An eager noise left his partner's rosy coloured mouth as fingers began to prod. Dark blue eyes locked with gold as a second, third finger was added. _

_Malik's chest rose and fell while he sucked at his collar bone, guiding his erection toward his bed partner's entrance. "Altair, _please_." _

The writer's eyes flew open; his heart pounded loudly and he blearily blinked away sleep from his eyes. Altair swallowed tacky sleep spit and allowed his breathing to return to normal. He cracked his neck, glaring down at his desk before standing awkwardly.

The writer waited until his body seemed calm enough to walk to his bedroom. Eyes caught on light that spilled from the living room, indicating that he wasn't the only one awake.

Altair padded noiselessly to the doorway, mentally groaning when Malik looked up from his book. "...what are you still doing up?" He asked, voice husky from sleep (and other things that he wasn't going to think about at the moment.)

The teenager glanced at the clock that read 4:25 and returned his gaze back onto Altair. A dark eyebrow rose and a small smirk flirted with the edge of his mouth. "I could ask the same to you."

Altair frowned, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms. "I just woke up and I was heading back to bed. So I'm going to ask again, why are you still up?"

Malik snorted softly and plucked his bookmark from his blanket covered lap. "Stop trying to act so high and mighty." The teenager marked his book and stood, stretching out the kinks in his back while his gaze remain locked with his foster father's. Altair's frown deepened, and his eyes narrowed. He was missing needed sleep due to this kid.

The teenager picked up his blanket and walked up to the taller male. He looked up, a slightly coy smile perking his lips upward. "You know, I would try to be quieter next time, _dad_." Altair's eyes widened as soft laughter followed the boy out of the room.

()()

He glared into his mug, jaw clenched in irritation as he felt fatigue's fingers digging deeply into his eye sockets. Why the hell did he have that dream the night before? Was he some sort of _pervert_, and why did Malik merely brush it off like it was a joke?

Images kept flashing over the insides of his lids like some sort of porno. The writer rubbed his face tiredly, slouching over the countertop with a groaning sigh.

The sound of tired footsteps brought Altair out of his angst, and he watched quietly as Kadar stumbled into the kitchen, a yawn and 'good morning' tumbling out of his mouth. The fourteen year-old fumbled in the cabinets, pulling out Lucky Charms and his own coffee mug while the elder of the two joined them.

Altair refused to glance at the seventeen year-old, choosing to sip at his cold coffee while ignoring Kadar who had nodded off into his bowl of cereal. In his peripheral vision, Altair could see Malik glancing his way with a slightly annoyed expression. _Good. _The writer walked out of the kitchen smirking.

()()

The writer sat staring at his computer screen, mouth turned down in irritation as the curser blinked uselessly at him. The document was blank, and an annoyingly loud pink post-it note attached to the side of his screen declared that his deadline was less than four months away. _Fuck my life_. Altair grabbed for his mug and grumbled lowly when nothing was in it. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, fatigue washing over him.

"Do you _ever_ work?" The writer jolted slightly, head snapping around to see Malik standing in the doorway. _Seriously, _fuck_ my life_. Altair watched as the teenager shut the door behind him, and the soft sound of the lock being activated all but echoed in his ears.

"...what are you doing." He watched as Malik picked up some research books from the floor with a slightly abhorred expression. The teenager ran the tips of his fingers almost lovingly down the spins of the books as he reshelved them, and Altair felt a small shiver go down his spine.

"Picking up the pigsty that you call your work space." Malik glanced up at him from under dark lashes, a brow raising. "What does it look like?"

Altair pursed his lips together in agitation, standing from his chair and glaring down at the teenager. "You know what I meant, Malik."

"No, I don't. Care to reiterate, _dad?_" Altair's jaw clenched.

"Don't call me that." Malik straightened, chin lifting in defiance and a smirk on his mouth.

"Why? Make you feel like a pervert,**_ daddy_**?"

"_Stop._"

"**_Make_ **me."

The teenager was shoved against the wall, his mouth covered by a rough and greedy one. Malik pressed back as well, his teeth nipping almost angrily at Altair's bottom lip, hot tongue sliding over the slightly bloody skin while his hand tugged at his foster father's hair. A groan passed between their mouths as teeth clicked together; Altair removed one of his hands from the wall behind the teenager's head and began to tug at the dark navy shirt Malik wore.

They pulled back, gulping down air while their hands sought to find more skin to touch. Malik's fingers quickly unzipped the white hoodie Altair wore, hand sliding under the red tee shirt in order to trail the muscle underneath. Altair removed the teenager's shirt, throwing it in some obscure direction, not caring where it landed as his mouth attacked one of Malik's quickly hardening nipples.

The teenager hissed softly, fingernails digging into the writer's stomach, causing a low growl to leave the older male's mouth. Their hips ground together, each craving friction; Malik groaned slightly and tugged at Altair's shirt, giving the writer a soft pout until the offending garment was removed.

Altair shuddered when Malik's fingers dove into the front of his pants, fondling his sex while the teenager struggled with his own problem. "Shit," Malik breathed, eyebrows furrowing in irritation. "Wh-what a time to only ha-_ah_-ve one arm..."

The older male snorted lightly, kissing under Malik's jaw before whispering: "Karma, bitch." His teeth latched onto the teenager's ear, causing Malik to buck his hips and give a low moan.

"F-fuck you, Altair." Another harsh bite was given to the teenager's ear before a tongue followed, almost as if the elder was apologizing. Malik shuddered lightly, but retaliated in pinching and rolling one of the writer's nipples, causing a low groan to tumble out of Altair's lips.

They moved to the office chair; it groaned under the weight of the two as Malik straddled the elder's hips. He connected their mouths again, savagely sucking at Altair's lower lip while rocking his hips as the elder thrust upward. The teenager bit at his foster father's neck, sucking harshly on the skin.

Altair moved his hands to Malik's arse, fingers squeezing appreciatively while the younger undid the button on the elder's pants. Malik's hand dove into the front of Altair's pants, palming his erection, causing the other male to hiss and groan.

A four fingered hand began to undo the teenager's pants button while the other slide into the fabric in order to squeeze and rub at Malik's own sex. They groaned into each other's mouths; Malik rocked his hips again, dropping his forehead to rest on the elder's shoulder. His finger slipped over the head of Altair's sex, thumbing the slit and smirking when the other violently thrust into his hand.

Altair bit down on the teenager's shoulder, squeezing Malik's shaft in time with his nipping. The younger mewled and groaned out in his mother tongue. Altair answered back lowly, sucking on the younger's skin, leaving marks he knew.

Malik shuddered as the familiar syllables and words slid over his skin like silk. He made a soft choking noise in the back of his throat, feeling his balls tighten in preparation of orgasm. He quickened his pace on Altair's sex, groaning loudly as he spilled himself over his foster father's hand.

Altair thrust into Malik's hand, hissing and growling lowly as the teenager's hand made quick work of him. He shuddered and smirked as he felt Malik's seed on his hand; his breath was coming out in short pants, and he could feel his own orgasm coming closer. The writer came with a low moan, clinging to the teenager as he road out his orgasm.

He fell heavily against the back of the chair, Malik following suit as they both gulped down air. He felt the teenager give a small kiss to his neck, the action gentle after the rough play before. Altair's eyes fell closed, and he breathed slowly through his nose. A thought occurred to him.

"Malik."

"hm?"

"...where's your brother?"

He felt the teenager smirk against his neck while fingers trailed down his chest. "Still asleep in his cereal."

()-()

_...umm Why did I make Malik have a daddy kink? (please don't kill me)_


	8. Somniphobia

_Perhaps it was time to head to bed..._His brain kept repeating the same thing over and over again; he could feel his eyes drying slightly from being strained, and his head was beginning to hurt from the caffeine he pumped into his system to _keep_ awake.

It was already four in the morning, a time when _normal_ people were asleep. _Normal_ people were asleep at least by two, not keeping themselves awake because they were afraid that maybe they wouldn't wake up in the morning.

Desmond sighed, scrubbing at his eyes while he tried to get his vision to focus again. It was a ridiculous thought, but it was what kept him awake at ungodly hours in the morning, scraping by on the barest amounts of sleep he was able to survive on.

He _hated_ sleeping, the feel of letting go of his conciseness and allowing himself to be vulnerable for a state of eight hours. He felt like he was dead and wasn't going to wake up...

The young man blinked again, looking down at his hands while he waited for time to pass by until it was time to begin another day. Fatigue clawed at him, and he could almost imagine a skeletal banshee picking away at his muscles till he could no longer remain awake. Desmond felt a small smile quirk one side of his mouth as he swayed on his spot.

It had been what? Three days since he last slept? Fatigue wasn't going to get him, he knew its plan. Wait until he was asleep to attack and kill him, destroy his body from the inside out.

It was a constant battle in which he had to remain vigilant.

_fff sorry if this one doesn't make much sense. Battling somniphobia and insomnia anyone?_


	9. Molskine and Therapy

"_test sites keep me up at night_  
><em>chainlink and meters<em>  
><em>I talk to you<em>  
><em>it's cold out there <em>  
><em>but i'm telling you<em>  
><em>I'm lonely too"<em> -Science Vs. Romance

Sixteen feels a gush of air leave his lungs as the crowd of subway passengers press against him. His skin itches and burns at the contact, looking up at the people with too large eyes, lids shadowed by sleepless nights. Thin fingers pick at the fraying edges of his plain white shirt sleeves, nails itching at the bandages thickly covering his dainty wrists.

The young man bites at the inside of his cheek for the umpteenth time that day, licking at the broken wound while letting out a shuddering breath. He feels the money weighing heavily in his pocket, and his other hand is wrapped around a smooth sheet of paper. Sixteen can practically feel the ink from the ball point pen being soaked into his skin, poisoning his mind even more so than it is.

(_Because his mind was poisoned from the chemicals and toxins of this bloody city. That's why he's seeing things, feeling things he's never experienced before. He's not crazy, that is a fact he's _sure_ of._)

On the paper is an address of a doctor working pro-bono with people like him. The doctor he had previously been seeing had turned him away due to things such as not having any health insurance, and not enough money. At least his previous doctor has given this man's address. Sixteen hopes that this new doctor will be able to get all these toxins out of his body. _He isn't crazy_.

The skin up and down his arms itches, and Sixteen rubs his sharp knuckles against the fabric of his worn jumper. He hisses when he feels fresh scabs pulling at healing skin and knows that he'll have to get rid of them when he gets home. He'll have to purge his body of his illness, of these toxins making a home in his body.

(_'Bloodletting was based on an ancient system of medicine in which blood and other bodily fluid were considered to be "humors" the proper balance of which maintained health. It was the most common medical practice performed by doctors from antiquity up to the late 19th century, a time span of almost 2,000 years.' His brain supplies tiredly, and Sixteen itches even more roughly at his arm while chewing rapidly at the inside of his mouth.)_

The subway screeches to a halt and Sixteen bolts through the slowly opening doors. His heart pounds in his chest, feeling filthy for even being down in the dirty underground. He can feel microorganisms festering under his skin, chewing at individual cells until he feels ready to scream. Instead, he swallows down a gust of air and looks down at the paper still tightly crumpled in his hand.

The address is stuck in his mind like glue, but he keeps glancing at the smudged ink over and over again just to make sure. He takes a left and then a right, dodging people who glance at him warily.

Sixteen looks up, matches the numbers on the building and shakily walks to the door. He places the tips of his fingers against the glass door and pushes, large eyes glancing about the cheery waiting room. He's the only one in there, and when he signs the patient waiting list, the dark-haired nurse glances up at him with an eyebrow cocked.

The skinny male sits awkwardly on the too cool waiting room chair. He crosses his bandaged legs and sits Indian style, folding his too thin hands in his lap. Sixteen closes his eyes and lets out a small sigh. He counts down the seconds until he hears the nurse scoot back her chair to call him into the small office.

Sixteen follows the woman down the lowly lit hallway and into a nice looking space. Eyes flicker over the comfortable looking chairs and a Rococo style painting hanging above the doctor's desk. ('_also referred to as "Late Baroque", is an 18th-century style which developed as Baroque artists gave up their symmetry and became increasingly ornate, florid, and playful_.') She says that the doctor will be in a moment and he was welcome to sit at one of the chairs.

He does so, folding himself awkwardly on the too plush chair, humming to himself lightly. He jumps when the office door is thrown open and a man in his early thirties marches in, adjusting a poorly tied tie with a small grimace.

Sixteen's eyes are large as he studies his doctor, watches the way the older man gives him a small nod and practically throws an overstuffed messenger bag onto the messy desk. Sixteen holds his breath, feeling the scars and scratches from the night previous burning under his bandages; he feels unclean in this doctor's office, like the germs on his skin are oozing off onto the chair. Thin fingers pick at his black sneaker causing an annoying scratching noise to reverberate around the room.

Electric blue eyes snap to meet his own. Sixteen stops his picking finger, staring at his doctor with a blank expression on his gaunt face. The doctor raises an eyebrow; he sits across from the skinny male, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back. "You gonna talk or just stare at me your entire session?"

Sixteen's mouth turns down and he glowers lightly. "I was merely waiting for you to begin doctor." He tears his gaze from the doctor's blue eyes and glares at his lap.

The doctor scoffs softly and moves so that he's sitting with his hands resting on his knees. "How about we start with introductions? I'm Alex Mercer, call me whatever, I don't care."

"Sixteen."

"...'Sixteen'? Is that a nickname or-"

Sixteen glowers and looks up. "It's my name, I've known no other." He blinks owlishly and smiles crookedly. "The angelic alphabet or Enochian alphabet was said to be the language that Adam once used to name all things. The alphabet consists of 24 characters. The language was transcribed in 49 prayers or keys, composed in the Book of Loagaeth." The doctor blinks in confusion, causing Sixteen to slouch in his chair. "My mind won't _shut up_."

His doctor places the tip of his pen in his mouth while his dark brows furrow in concentration. He makes a small 'hm'-ing noise in the back of his throat before standing to stride to the bookshelf on the other side of the room. Sixteen watches with wide eyes as the man sweeps his fingers over the various books arranged neatly on the mahogany shelves. The doctor's fingers trail over the arrangement till they stop on the plain spine of a moleskine notebook.

Sixteen jumps as the notebook is tossed carelessly in his direction; scarred fingers fumble with catching, but soon he crushes the book close to his skinny chest. The doctor returns to his previous position, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs at the ankles. "Whenever you have a fact, write it down in that notebook." Sixteen glances from his lounging doctor to the notebook crushed to his chest. He chews the inside of his cheek until he's able to rip off skin, the familiar pain exploding through-out his mouth, and the coppery taste of blood rolls over his taste buds.

He takes a breath, "The normal blood pH level is-"

Blue eyes flash, and a frown dips the doctor's mouth. "The. Notebook." A pen is thrust in his direction; Sixteen takes it up, writing quickly in a messy scrawl, words barely legible.

Sixteen glances up, a flush dusting over his narrow face as Dr. Mercer gives a minute nod of his head and a small smile. "Great. Keep that up until next week."

He's back on the subway, surrounded by dirty people who infect him with their illnesses. A woman is listening to her ipod loudly, the song reminding him of a fact about the treble cleft, but there isn't anymore room on or in his notebook to write down anything. The red molskine is covered with illegible scrawl, the words too close together, but the exercise is comforting.

Sixteen licks his lips, wanting to itch at his arms or legs, the week-old scabs healing over cause his skin to feel too tight. He hopes that perhaps Dr. Mercer will give him another notebook.

-0-

_Mm I don't know, enjoy some more Alex MercerxSixteen _


End file.
